


The Assumption of Happiness (Also Sometimes Works Out Fine)

by dannyPURO



Series: The Assumption of Heartbreak [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Breakfast, Enjolras is a Dumb Pouty Idiot, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Morning After, brief angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 14:19:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15026513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyPURO/pseuds/dannyPURO
Summary: Enjolras wakes up alone. He’s naked and half-under Grantaire’s blanket and it’s later than he ever sleeps, normally, and it would be really, really nice, except for the fact that he’s alone in bed after Grantaire just kissed him awake and gave him the blowjob of the century and told him he loved him and god, if it were anyone else he would be so unconcerned right now.It’s not anyone else, though, it’s Grantaire, and so Enjolras is concerned.He’s also a little bit heartbroken. Maybe he shouldn’t have jumped the gun, earlier, and let himself be happier than he’s been in years. Maybe he should’ve guessed that Grantaire would think about it a little and realize that he’s got no reason to want to be with Enjolras, who has done nothing but get annoyed by him and insult him and have embarrassing wet dreams about him for the full extent of the time that they’ve known each other. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be with an asshole workaholic.





	The Assumption of Happiness (Also Sometimes Works Out Fine)

**Author's Note:**

> This is barely a sequel. It's self-indulgent fluff and a little smut and there's not a ton of plot. There's some, just... not a ton. I recommend reading the first one, but if you don't... no biggie.

Enjolras wakes up alone. He’s naked and half-under Grantaire’s blanket and it’s later than he ever sleeps, normally, and it would be really, really nice, except for the fact that he’s alone in bed after Grantaire just kissed him awake and gave him the blowjob of the century and told him he loved him and god, if it were anyone else he would be so unconcerned right now.

It’s not anyone else, though, it’s Grantaire, and so Enjolras is concerned. 

He’s also a little bit heartbroken. Maybe he shouldn’t have jumped the gun, earlier, and let himself be happier than he’s been in years. Maybe he should’ve guessed that Grantaire would think about it a little and realize that he’s got no reason to want to be with Enjolras, who has done nothing but get annoyed by him and insult him and have embarrassing wet dreams about him for the full extent of the time that they’ve known each other. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be with an asshole workaholic.

Which is absolutely his decision to make. Enjolras respects that. Consent is important and emotions and physical attraction do nothing to determine the reality of a relationship and of course Grantaire has the right to not want to be with him, but… but he kind of wants to cry, a little, because he really thought he’d gotten in a relationship with the man he’s in love with.

He wonders if Grantaire has actually left the apartment, gone off to Jehan’s place or something, to spare Enjolras the embarrassment of the conversation that will inevitably occur in some form. He can’t hear anybody in the apartment, after all. God, maybe he’s left a note in that beautiful, scrawling handwriting of his. Sorry, Apollo, it would say, I’m not feeling it.

Fuck.

He wants to go back to sleep and just lay there with his face shoved in the pillow so he doesn’t have to deal with this.

He doesn’t, though, because if Grantaire wants him out, it would be rude to stay, and Enjolras figures he’s been rude enough already. So he sits up, and gets out of bed, and pulls on his clothes from the night before-- God, the night before-- and pulls his hair up into a ponytail in the mirror before opening the bedroom door into the rest of the apartment.

His mood may or may not improve instantly. Grantaire is in the kitchenette, in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, illuminated by the sunlight that shines in through the window and makes the whole room glow. He’s beating egg whites, Enjolras is pretty sure, though he could be wrong, while he pores over a recipe book. He’s fucking gorgeous. Enjolras wants to cry from relief. He wants to kiss this wonderful man.

“Grantaire,” he says, from the doorway, and Grantaire startles. 

He whips around, dropping the mixing bowl in the process and just barely recovering it against his hip and the side of the counter. “Enjolras,” he says, grinning sheepishly, once the situation is under control again and the bowl is safely on the counter. “You’re… you’re awake.”

Enjolras approaches. “You’re making me waffles,” he says, once he realizes what’s happening, and he just can’t keep the adoration out of his voice. He just can’t. 

“There’s coffee, too,” Grantaire admits, and he looks almost embarrassed to have done something so charming, so wonderful. “I was gonna bring it to you in bed, but you… you’re here.”

Enjolras has to laugh, exhilarated and almost hysterical. “I thought you fucking left, R, and you were making me breakfast in bed?”

Grantaire bites his lip, looks down at the waffle maker, the ingredients he’s got spread across the counter. “Should I… not have?”

God, Enjolras is in love. He steps a little closer, takes Grantaire by the wrist, pulls him to face him. “Grantaire,” is all he can think to say, and then he’s pressing up on his toes to kiss him and slipping an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders.

Grantaire groans, low and sweet, and pulls him so close Enjolras can feel all those boxer’s muscles, broad and powerful, right through his shirt. He kisses him so deep, so thorough, that Enjolras doesn’t even notice they’ve been moving backwards until his back hits the other countertop. Grantaire hitches him up on it, so, so easily, and lets his hands linger on Enjolras’s ass.

Enjolras breaks off to breathe. Grantaire just kisses down his neck, nipping and sucking and leaving a few spots that Enjolras is certain are going to bruise, and it’s so wonderful. “R,” he says, and he lets his hand clench in Grantaire’s curls, lets his legs wrap around his waist, keeping him close. “R, I love you.”

If that groan was hot, earlier, it’s got nothing on the god damn  _ growl _ that Grantaire lets out against the skin of Enjolras’s neck. He’s back to kissing him on the mouth in an instant, seeming… almost distracted, or maybe just overwhelmed, but in any case, just pressing short little kisses to his lips, gone in a second or two. “I love you too,” he says, after a bit, then buries his face in Enjolras’s shoulder. “I love you,” he says again, and he just sounds so in awe that Enjolras holds him close and breathes with him.

Somehow, he’s found himself in the most wonderful morning of his life.

They’re interrupted by Enjolras’s stomach growling. Loudly.

Grantaire laughs, such a wonderful sound that Enjolras almost isn’t embarrassed. “Guess I should finish making those waffles.”

And so Enjolras watches from the countertop as Grantaire cooks and makes his way around the kitchenette, and while the first waffle is in the iron, a mug of coffee finds its way into his hands. 

“Cream, no sugar, right?” Grantaire asks him, and Enjolras just nods mutely because yeah, that is right, and maybe Grantaire’s been paying a little more attention than Enjolras thought. “Good.” He leans in and gives him a quick kiss, like he just can’t help it, before turning back to his cooking.

He lets his legs kick lazily as he sips his coffee, thinking distantly of the night before and what may be to come, and when he looks up again, Grantaire is staring at him. It’s bizarrely familiar; Enjolras is only just starting to realize what might have been behind that penetrating gaze in all their meetings. “What?” he asks, but he can’t quite make it sound snappish like it usually does.

Grantaire’s got a plate of waffles in each hand, but he doesn’t make any move towards the table. He’s rooted in place, almost, and he sighs. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he says, and that just makes Enjolras's heart race. He continues on, though, “I can’t believe you-” he sighs. “Are you sure? Are you sure you want  _ me _ ?”

Enjolras frowns. Of course he wants Grantaire. Grantaire has made up all of his wet dreams for the last two and a half years. He’s fucking  _ enamored _ . He hops down off the countertop and takes the plates, brings them to the little table in the other room. “I think I know who I’m in love with.” He sits down, waits for Grantaire to join him.

He does, albeit slowly, and sips his coffee while watching Enjolras over the side of the cup. “So what now?” he asks, after a minute or so.

“I was hoping we could go out,” Enjolras says, though he is, admittedly, at a bit of a loss-- not because he doesn’t know what he wants, of course, but simply because… he hasn’t done this before. If dating history were a section on his resume, to put it in a metaphor, it would be a quite severe gap in his experience. “You know. Date. Be in a relationship. Stuff like that.”

Grantaire looks down at his coffee, smiling almost shyly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Enjolras tucks into his waffles, if only to hide his grin, and nearly moans. “Grantaire, I am keeping you forever.”

He lets out a surprised burst of laughter. “That good, huh?” 

Honestly, Enjolras doesn’t know why he’s so surprised himself. After all, it seems every month he learns about another thing that Grantaire excels at. Why not cooking, if he’s so talented at everything else? “To be fair, you could give me a bowl of stale cereal and I’d still want to stick around.”

“You just want someone to cook for you,” Grantaire says, and okay, maybe Enjolras isn’t the best at cooking, and maybe he did ruin one of Combeferre’s nice saucepans that one time, and maybe he did slice open his hand that other time, but that doesn’t mean he can’t feed himself.

“I want  _ you _ to cook for me.” It’s all sickeningly sappy, and Enjolras knows that if he ever heard any of the shit he’s saying right now from Courfeyrac, he’d have to leave the room. Whatever. He’s in love. Mutual, requited love.

They eat their breakfast together, and afterward, Enjolras gets up to clean the dishes before Grantaire can stop him. “You really thought I left?” Grantaire asks, over the running water.

Enjolras shuts off the sink, doesn’t turn around. “Yeah,” he admits. “I don’t know. You were drunk last night, you might’ve regretted it, and I woke up and you weren’t there and I thought… maybe that was a hint.”

Grantaire comes up behind him, wraps his arms-- god, those arms, around Enjolras’s waist, holds him close. It’s warm and comforting and so, so nice. Enjolras is also maybe a little turned on again. “I mean what I said. I’m really, really in love with you.” He takes the plate from Enjolras’s hands and sets it down in the sink as he presses a kiss to the side of Enjolras’s neck. “Take a break from the dishes, Apollo.”

God, gladly. He shifts in Grantaire’s arms so he’s facing him, pressed up against the counter, and he leans up to kiss him like he’s been wanting, and wow, Enjolras is pretty sure it gets better every time. He lets Grantaire press up against him, lets him shove his thigh between Enjolras’s legs, lets him fucking devour him. He’s spoiled now, really, he doesn’t want to do this with anybody else in the world.

He’s aware, distantly, that he’s making embarrassing little noises that he can’t seem to stop, and that he’s rutting up against Grantaire’s leg with unabashed enthusiasm. He can’t stop either, though, and Grantaire is looking at him with wonder in his eyes whenever they pull away to breathe, so he hardly minds. 

Grantaire is murmuring things against his mouth, too: adoring venerations that Enjolras had always assumed were jokes. He’s going to have to reexamine a lot of stuff now, he realizes. Grantaire’s hand has found its way into his ponytail, the other one firmly planted on his ass, and it all feels so good and overwhelming that it’s only a few more minutes before Enjolras is gasping and kissing him with a renewed desperation and coming in his pants like a fucking teenager. 

He collapses against Grantaire, limp and trembling and in shock, nearly. Grantaire groans, does his best to support him against his body while continuing to rut against his hip desperately, landing careless kisses to his lips, to his neck, to his jaw. 

Grantaire comes a moment later with a sound that Enjolras wants to remember for the rest of his life. He goes pretty lax, too, but he flips them so that he’s the one leaning against the counter, and Enjolras is leaning against his chest. “Christ,” he says, finally, and his voice is gravelly and hoarse and wonderful. 

“Mmm.” Enjolras shuts his eyes. “Nice.”

Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras can feel it where his head rests against his chest. God, this is so nice. “We need a shower.”

Enjolras whines, nuzzles closer. “Just carry me.”

He probably shouldn’t make jokes like that around people who have the capacity and the will to actually do so. Grantaire scoops him up over his shoulder, ignoring his shriek of protest, and carries him off towards the bathroom.

Enjolras is struck, as Grantaire fiddles with the shower, by the thought that he gets to  _ have _ this now. He gets to have mornings with Grantaire, gets to go on dates with him, (gets to get fucked by him), gets to  _ love  _ him. Gets to love him. Wow.

“What?” Grantaire asks, when he turns, and Enjolras realizes he’s been grinning dopily. 

He shrugs. “I just like you,” he says, and when Grantaire’s face lights up with the same smile, he figures he’s never been happier.


End file.
